


The Nanny

by HashtagLEH



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Angst, Attempted Sexual Assault, BAMF Crowley (Good Omens), Canon Compliant, Chauvinism, Confused Aziraphale (Good Omens), Crowley Needs a Hug (Good Omens), Derogatory Language, Gardener Aziraphale (Good Omens), Gender Confusion, Gender Dysphoria, Gender Issues, Genderfluid Character, Genderfluid Crowley (Good Omens), Misogyny, Nanny Crowley (Good Omens), Non-Consensual Groping, Non-Consensual Touching, Non-Graphic Violence, Objectification, Other, Sexual Harassment, Supportive Aziraphale (Good Omens), check that tag seriously
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-18
Updated: 2019-07-20
Packaged: 2020-07-08 01:04:12
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 5,430
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19861003
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HashtagLEH/pseuds/HashtagLEH
Summary: Crowley didn't expect this reaction to his Nanny Ashtoreth persona. He doesn't quite know how to react.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [Nanny Knows Best](https://archiveofourown.org/works/19485889) by [DictionaryWrites](https://archiveofourown.org/users/DictionaryWrites/pseuds/DictionaryWrites). 



> I finally broke and watched Good Omens, and omg I see why it's exploded in popularity. And...I decided to write this because DictionaryWrites' [ Nanny Knows Best](https://archiveofourown.org/series/1417363) series gave me all the feels and I wanted to write more. 
> 
> There is some confusion in here with pronouns, because Crowley himself isn't sure what pronoun to use so he switches back and forth depending on how he feels that very second, even when he always looks the same on the outside. This includes referring to himself as both in the same sentence. So, each time is intentional, not to worry. Hope you can follow along with his thought process, anyway.
> 
> Aziraphale and Crowley can also be read as friendship or pre-relationship, which is why I added both tags. But it's about as vague as the series is on the matter, so. ¯\\_(ツ)_/¯
> 
> Also, I just got the book today in the mail so now I'm off to read it.
> 
> Hope you guys like this!

Crowley’s first hint that things would be quite a bit different from what he was used to and possibly _uncomfortable_ here were when the butler answered the door.

It was nothing obvious, of course. Crowley, dressed in the plainest and strictest outfit he could find, lips painted with burgundy lipstick and hair pinned back in tight curls with a hat perched atop his head, had said simply, “I understand you need a nanny.”

(It had, of course, been no coincidence that he had heard such a thing, or that he was the only one to show up for the position. He had miracled some better jobs for the other applicants, who had then immediately told the Dowlings that they were no longer interested in the position. Only Crowley was left, and while he knew that it was an easily done deal at this point, he was still determined to be the best nanny there ever was. For his reputation, of course.)

And it hadn’t been anything obvious, the look that the butler had given him. To the uninformed observer, it would appear to be a simple assessment of his outward appearance. But to Crowley, someone who was well versed in the ways of the world and of a certain variety of humans, it was obvious that the butler was undressing him with his eyes.

It caused him to panic a bit, inwardly. He had, after all, considered briefly the idea of being the sexy seductress – one who still loved children and would want the best for the young Warlock – and one that was flirty enough for anyone to overlook the odd qualities of her character. But he had swiftly dismissed that idea in favor of the look he now sported. He had dressed in dark colors, skirt coming almost to his ankles and wearing a very homely pair of black loafers, with thick pantyhose hugging his legs where skin might have been seen otherwise. The sunglasses were more in line with this look anyway, and it would be more easily passed off as one of those odd quirks that the nanny seemed to have. It would be overlooked by the evidence of his love for the boy – clearly the most important part of the entire operation.

So the fact that the butler found this visage – _attractive_ – it was something that he just found himself not wanting to worry about. In fact, very much wanting to _not_ have to worry about. That was the whole reason for this appearance rather than the other, after all. He was here to stop the antichrist, not deal with amorous or sexual attentions from the house help.

He pretended he didn’t notice the look though as he followed the butler in to where the Dowling mother sat in the parlor, deciding that he would carry on in this attitude for as long as he was able. Surely if he ignored it, it would go away.

***

It very much did _not_ go away.

Crowley found himself wondering at the particular tastes of the men of the household, because he was trying very much to _not_ be a temptress. Hell and Satan, if he had thought that _this_ was tempting to certain men, he might have adopted this visage centuries ago when he was actually _trying_ to tempt people into sin.

It wasn’t anything overt, and he didn’t think that they knew that he could hear them talk about him the way they did. But he heard every vulgar and disparaging word, every crude expression that passed their lips in whispers and laughs to each other like they were coming up with sensuality itself, all on their own.

It was nothing he hadn’t heard before, but it felt quite a bit different when it was directed at _him_. He had heard these remarks over the years, in bars and in pubs, but it had been a distant thing that never affected him. Was it disgusting? Most certainly. But he had never seen the need to get involved before, thinking that the girls the men through history had talked about were perfectly fine, that all of the talk was hypothetical, men bragging and puffing hot air in empty pride.

How foolish he had been, he thought now. He wondered how many women had been harassed and molested before because he hadn’t seen the need to step in, to stop the misogynistic talk in its tracks.

Because there was always one man, he realized, who would take the sick jokes to heart, would get prideful and certain, and would finally act on the words.

He had been a nanny to the young Warlock for two months, and Aziraphale was meant to arrive tomorrow to apply to the gardener position. (Couldn’t have them showing up one right after the other, after all, and though it had been pointed out that Crowley would have a two month advantage for the side of Hell, Crowley had insisted that he honestly had nothing to do with the nanny position coming up as needed before the gardener one. He didn’t think Aziraphale had been honestly upset with the arrangement either, because the protest seemed token at best, even for him.)

Warlock was almost seven months old now, and as such was still sleeping in the crib. Crowley had worried for a bit that the young antichrist was not yet attempting to climb out of the bars and cause mischief, but as most children didn’t do that till they could walk, and Warlock was just beginning to crawl, he decided that it wasn’t that bad. He could worry later on.

But, as he was in the crib, Crowley had to bend and lean over the edge of the bars to place the child atop the mattress. The boy whose blond hair was rapidly darkening to what would become almost black very soon was sleeping peacefully, and Crowley felt a twinge somewhere in his chest that he dismissed as heartburn at the sight of the peaceful expression, at the plump pink lips parted just slightly while the baby snored softly. He certainly didn’t look anything like his father, that was certain – he was much too pretty, too innocent.

As he straightened his posture and moved to click the bars back up to their normal height, he heard a low whistle from behind him, at the door, and he sighed inwardly to himself even as something twisted uncomfortably in his chest. He turned to the doorway, his expression blank, and stared through dark lenses at the man that stood there – _leering_ at her. She knew him – had heard his name. He was one of the cook’s hands, in his early twenties, and had only been there for a month longer than her. Harold Pincer, though he went by Harry. His face looked like the end piece of a loaf of bread.

“It’s always nice to see you bending over like that,” he said before she could make some benign remark. He was leaning against the doorway, and she thought it might be intentional, how he blocked her immediate exit. Crowley wasn’t afraid – she was a demon, she had no reason to be afraid – but she did feel a sick feeling in her gut. Disgust, she decided. That’s all it was.

“You’ve got a nice arse,” the man continued, oblivious to the way she seethed. “Everyone knows it. Bet you just like…”

“Was there something you needed, Mr. Pincer?” Crowley interrupted sharply, though kept her face as calm as ever. “I am rather tired after the day, and should like to retire.”

“How can you be tired?” the man grinned, looking up at where she now stood about a foot away from him, a silent demand for him to step aside. “I know what can _really_ make you work up a sweat.”

“Excuse me, Mr. Pincer,” Crowley said, deciding not to dignify those comments with a response as he moved forward, daring the man to move out of the way or be bowled over.

The man straightened, blocking the exit and forcing Crowley to a stop. Well, not _forcing_. But he could hardly kill the bastard where he stood without there being questions. The wellbeing and upbringing of the antichrist was more important than dealing with… _this_. She couldn’t risk being fired – not now.

“Come on, don’t be such a frigid bitch,” the man cajoled. Crowley wondered if he thought this was really how to get a woman into his bed, because she did not feel romanticized at _all_. “I know you’re just _aching_ for it. I can make it good for you.”

“Mr. Pincer,” Crowley said sharply, straightening his shoulders and glaring down his nose at the twat. “I am here to care for Master Dowling, and nothing else. I am not interested in your advances, and you would do well to back off _now_.” He gave a short nod, and brushed past the man, intent on getting to his room just down the hall.

“Aw, don’t play hard to get now – ” A hand grabbed her arse, squeezing none-too-gently, and Crowley snapped, whirling around and slapping the hand away.

“Do not _ever_ presume to lay a hand on me again,” he hissed, teeth clenched in fury as he stared down the _stupid_ man, “Unless you want to _lose_ that hand.”

Without another word, he turned and stalked stiffly down the hall, closing the door to his room behind him.

For a moment, she stood there, whole body shaking and telling himself that it was due to the fury that was sweeping through him.

Then he straightened, forcing his mind to shut it out. Nothing had happened. It was just a stupid _boy_.

At least Aziraphale would be there the next day. He missed having a trustworthy face around.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So the chapter count went up...Crowley and Aziraphale wanted their own chapter to talk, so that will be next chapter. Here, Crowley finally snaps.

After the situation with Harry Pincer, Crowley watched with dread as the lewd comments and gestures only grew louder. It seemed that they _wanted_ her to hear them talking about her as she walked by with Warlock in her arms, and she wanted to hiss at them that there was a _child_ present.

She refrained, though. Reacting to them would only feed the flames, she knew. It would encourage the pigs to get more obvious, to test her and see how far they could take it before she snapped.

And the damned Harry Pincer – and she would be _certain_ he was damned after this life – hadn’t gotten the very _obvious_ hint she had thrown his way and only continued to leer at her and wink and laugh with the others about her figure, her bony arse and small tits. She had always thought that men wanted a curvy figure, but they seemed unnaturally aroused at the sight of her dark tweed and sensible shoes.

“What a _tease_ ,” one of the chauffeurs whispered to another as they walked so conveniently past her at the same time she was sitting with Warlock in the garden. She had been doing nothing but watching the boy grab at blades of grass just to watch them fall from his fingers just a few feet from her while she sat on a wicker chair. She really couldn’t tell how it was she was being a tease in this way, but she pretended to ignored it as usual, though she caught every word.

“Come to me, Warlock,” she called quietly to the boy, who looked up at the sound of his name and gave her a bright grin with only two teeth on top, another one just pushing through the gums on the bottom. He probably didn’t understand exactly what she had said, but he knew enough already to know that his Nanny loved him more than anyone else in the household did, and was naturally and easily drawn to her because of it. He went onto his hands and knees, not quite strong enough to walk on his own yet, but eager to crawl over to her as fast as his little limbs would carry him.

She was just giving him a soft smile and leaning down to pick him up when she caught what the second chauffeur said to the other, voice carrying easily as it was surely meant to do.

“I wouldn’t mind crawling to her like that,” he muttered. “Please, ma’am, may I have another?”

His voice was mocking, and it made the blood freeze in her veins, even while nothing changed in her outward appearance, lifting Warlock to sit on her lap and praising him for his fast crawling.

“Imagine how tight her cunt’s got to be, though, with all that frigidity,” the first one said, and Crowley felt exposed, though she was clothed from toe to neck as she always was. She resisted the urge to close her jacket tighter around her and instead hugged the boy in her lap more tightly to her body.

“ _God_ , what I wouldn’t give to sit on her lap like that,” the boy went on. “Who’d ‘ve thought when I came here that I’d be more jealous of the baby with the nanny than the parents with all the money, eh?”

Crowley tried to bring up fury, that they were comparing an innocent _baby_ to – to _that_. And he was – furious, that is. But she couldn’t do anything more than deal with the clenching in her stomach, the sick feeling she hadn’t had since she’d accidentally picked up a spot of the Black Plague before miracling it away.

***

“I don’t like the way they look at me,” Crowley had muttered to Aziraphale when the angel had asked him what was on his mind soon after his arrival wherein he’d noticed how _different_ the demon was acting. “I feel exposed.”

Aziraphale had chuckled at the time, a bit confused but no less amused for it. “You’re hardly exposed, Cro – _Ashtoreth_ ,” he said, remembering that they needed to use their other names in case someone overheard, though Crowley didn’t know who would hear them, in the gardener’s quarters at the end of the property, at one-thirty in the morning. “I see less of you now than I ever have – your disguise is really quite spectacular.”

“One would think,” Crowley murmured, staring at the glass of wine in his hands. He didn’t really feel like drinking, and he couldn’t tell if the angel had noticed. At that thought, he brought it to his lips, though he didn’t really want to, and tipped it back in one swallow.

The point was…the _point_ was that it felt all too familiar, being in the Dowling household. He was used to being watched in Hell. Demons were always in competition with one another, watching and waiting for a chance to bring another down so that they could rise in the ever-changing ranks.

This was different, though. It wasn’t looks of hatred and disgust – it was leers and lustful stares and craning heads around the corner to watch her walk down the hallway to see the way her pencil skirt hugged her figure.

It was just looking, he told himself. And talking. And that one time with the grabbing –

He cut off the thought. It wasn’t much different from Hell, really. They were all still looking for weaknesses, moments where they could pounce. Where they could _win_.

Because that’s what it felt like, now. A competition with the rest of the male members of staff – who could get her into bed first. He felt like an object, like a trophy to be sought after. But not a prize. A prize was treated carefully, respectfully, the way that Aziraphale treated his books. Or savored, the way the angel treated his food and desserts.

Crowley didn’t feel like a prize. He felt like a trophy, on display for everyone to see and comment about, fawned over for what he _represented_ rather than what he _was_.

He hated it. He hated the looks, and the comments, and the gestures, but he was a demon and he shouldn’t have to worry about these kinds of things. They were things that weren’t supposed to bother him, and yet they still made his skin crawl every time.

And he didn’t know how to tell Aziraphale all these things without sounding so _stupid_ – especially when Aziraphale really didn’t seem all that concerned with Crowley’s comment.

So he never brought it up again.

***

Crowley was alone, putting all of the toys away on their proper shelves and in their baskets, enjoying the mindlessness of the work. He had never expected to find certain aspects of nannying _calming_ , but here he was, enjoying wiping down slobbery wooden blocks with some wipes and making sure that the little toy cars were each in their slot in the box before closing the lid and setting it on the shelf.

The young antichrist was finally beginning to walk, at just over a year old, and while Crowley was ~~proud of him~~ glad he didn’t have to carry him everywhere anymore, he only got into more trouble now that he could get around more places. Crowley would never forget the time he had looked away for a moment to deal with one of the footmen trying to ask her out – or into bed, what was the difference with these men, anyway? – and when he had looked back to where Warlock had been, he had been gone. Luckily he couldn’t go far yet, and he had quickly located him trying to climb down the stairs on his own and had a minor heart attack that he was going to go tumbling right down before he had snatched up a hand to help guide him down the stairs with support, as he was clearly determined to go down.

Luckily though, he was in bed now, having fallen asleep about a half hour previous, leaving Crowley time to tidy up the playroom. He used to be able to do it along the way, but now he had to watch the growing toddler more closely to be sure he didn’t run off and hurt himself. So, in the past couple of months or so since watching the child more closely at all times had become necessary, he had taken to cleaning up after he’d put him to bed. It took about twenty minutes each night – half an hour if things were particularly dirty or needed more careful sanitizing.

He straightened up from where he had been putting a box of these fascinating little toys called Legos in their place on the bottom shelf, and used the shelf in front of him as support to get from his knees to his feet. All that was left was a quick run-over with the vacuum, as some Cheerios had been crushed into the carpet in Warlock’s playing today.

She sensed the presence behind her a moment before he spoke.

“Need some help?” the voice was casual, but when Crowley glanced over she saw the glittering eyes of a man who lusted.

“I’m perfectly alright, Mr. Pincer,” she said crisply, moving over to the closet to fetch the vacuum. “I am perfectly capable of handling a vacuum.”

“Mm, maybe you could handle _me_ instead.” the man purred in a voice he no doubt thought was sexy. Crowley, who had met Leonardo da Vinci himself, thought that he had a lot to work on. Namely, not being a chauvinistic pig, but that was neither here nor there.

Crowley pursed her lips, about to bend down to plug in the vacuum but realizing a moment later that she didn’t want to invite the comments that that action would bring. She would just have to get rid of the man first.

“I am quite uninterested, Mr. Pincer,” she told him calmly. Act uninterested, she told herself. Don’t show your feelings – that will give him what he wants. Act like you always do. Maybe he’ll go away then.

She turned to pick up a couple of books lying open on a shelf. They didn’t really _need_ to be moved, but it gave her something to do, some way to make her look busy.

“If you would kindly vacate this room, I should like to finish up here before the sun rises,” she told him sternly, reaching up to put the books on the next shelf up, spines facing out so that she could see the right ones when she needed them. It was very important, making sure things like this were neat, because it made life so much easier.

She might have gone on – really, she wasn’t sure yet at that point – but then she felt a presence at her back and manly arms were wrapped around her waist.

“You will remove your hands from me at once,” she said in a voice of warning, blood chilling in her veins. She didn’t know what she would do, but she was a _demon_ , for Satan’s sake. She was dangerous, and she knew how to handle herself, and she could cause _real harm_ to this pig with just a few words.

“Aw, c’mon,” the man said lowly, breath ghosting across her neck. “No need to play hard to get. You have to know how sexy you are, don’t you? Let me give you what you _need_.”

Crowley would have snapped again, would have threatened, would have done all he could to keep it to words only. He didn’t want to cause real harm, not when it could make his position with the antichrist so precarious, and he had been holding himself back from really acting like a _demon_ for eight months now. It would be foolish to do something now.

But then Pincer pressed his hips insistently to her backside, and it wasn’t just persistence now – it was threat. His hardness pressed right up against her and he squeezed her tighter to him, lips beginning to press at the side of her neck, wet and sticky – close, _too close_ – and her heart leaped to her throat before fury took over, racing through her veins.

It was easy to break out of his hold, grabbing him by the arms and throwing him against the wall.

“I said get your hands _off_ me,” he hissed lowly when he blinked at her in surprise. A moment later, a smarmy grin crept onto his face.

“You gonna punish me, now?” he wheedled, tugging pointedly at the front of his pants and giving her a smirk.

“ _Yesss_ ,” Crowley hissed without hesitation, removing his ever-present sunglasses to stare at the man without shields. Pincer’s expression went startled, but not fearful. Not yet. “Didn’t I _tell_ you what would happen if you touched me again?”


	3. Chapter 3

The poor man, Crowley heard the maids whispering to themselves the next day. He was only twenty-four, you know? They went on.

He was stupid, the other cooks said. Using an electric meat grinder without gloves? Anything could happen. That’s why they had _rules_ about these sorts of things.

Why would he even be grinding meat so early in the morning? Some of them wondered. They didn’t need it until later, but no one had stopped him when he went to use it.

He’d never be able to use his hands again, they all said. They were completely mangled. And because of that, he was no longer able to work in the Dowling household. The Dowlings paid for all the medical bills of course, even though they didn’t have to after he had signed his hiring contract that protected them from such accidents, but Mrs. Dowling felt just terrible that such an accident had occurred in her house. It was a decent severance package, anyway.

Crowley listened to it all, and he didn’t smile, but he felt satisfaction, anyway.

A terrible accident, the house help agreed amongst each other. It never should have happened.

Aziraphale listened to it all, watching everyone, feeling in his bones that this was Crowley’s doing. Crowley was different, of course, and he was a demon. But never before had the angel thought him _cruel_. And he didn’t know what to do with this bone-deep certainty that somehow, his friend was involved in the “accident”.

Crowley appeared the night after the young man had gone away in an ambulance, walking easy as you please into Aziraphale’s little cottage at the back of the property after Warlock had been put to bed.

It was two drinks in that Aziraphale finally said narrowly, “Tell me that you’re not responsible for the tragedy that occurred to Mr. Pincer this morning.”

Crowley sipped his wine, watching Aziraphale but pretending not to be. Aziraphale was a man. He had never, not once, identified as a woman. Technically all angels and all demons were made genderless, but most identified as genderfluid or nonbinary. Crowley fell solidly in the genderfluid category, with a preference toward manhood but perfectly comfortable as a woman. But Aziraphale had always identified as a man, for six thousand years now. So Crowley wasn’t certain that Aziraphale would fully understand. He thought that ~~his~~ the angel might be supportive at least, but he had been on edge for months now (which, although he ran on a different concept of time than mortals still felt like a very long time, what with looking over his shoulder the entire time) and he didn’t really know what to think.

Aziraphale took his silence as an answer though, and he immediately looked distraught and horrified.

“ _Crowley_!” he cried scoldingly. “Why on _earth_ …”

“You’re not in the house,” Crowley interrupted calmly. “You don’t hear all that is said. That man deserved _exactly_ what he got.”

Aziraphale blinked in astonished horror. Crowley didn’t even look like he cared, or regretted anything. He was perfectly calm as ever, like they were discussing nothing more important than the current politics. (Which, while he knew it was a very heated topic for mortals, he and Crowley had never cared for much, ever changing as they were, and as such discussed it as placidly as mortals made small talk about the weather.)

“And why did he deserve this, Crowley?!” Aziraphale demanded.

Crowley hummed, swirling the drink in his glass before taking a sip. “He has been bothering me.” Aziraphale thought he was finished with this statement, and swelled in preparation for some righteous anger until Crowley went on.

“Mortal men are pigs, you know?” he said casually, and Aziraphale wished he could see Crowley’s eyes. They always gave away – at least to him, who knew his best friend so well – everything that he was feeling. He hadn’t seen Crowley’s eyes since he got here, he realized suddenly. Even with the visits to drink and catch up every other week, Crowley had always kept his sunglasses on, and that just wasn’t like him.

“It’s not like I _try_ to be tempting – not all the time,” Crowley drawled. “This time, I’m trying very much _not_ to be. But they still want – but not _me_. No mortal could handle _me_.”

“Crowley, what are you saying?” Aziraphale questioned, feeling lost.

“Who cares what _I_ say, you know?” Crowley returned, sinking back further into the armchair that really was more comfortable than it looked. Crowley suspected a miracle there, though he knew that Aziraphale would not admit to it. “I’m a _woman_. Or I look like one. Sometimes. And no one cares what a _woman_ has to say. She says no, they say, ‘oh, she’s playing hard to get’. She says, ‘get your hands off me or lose them’ and they say she’s _begging_ to be fucked. _Am_ I in the wrong here, Aziraphale?”

“Crowley,” Aziraphale breathed in shock. “You…he didn’t…?”

Crowley snorted humorlessly. “He didn’t,” he confirmed, waving a hand. “Because I wouldn’t _let_ him. And I won’t let anyone else, either. Why do you think I had him mangle his hands in front of all of them?”

There it was. The outright admittance of how he’d manipulated Pincer into shoving his hands into the meat grinder that morning. It had been what Aziraphale had hoped wasn’t Crowley after all but was practically certain it was, anyway. The confusion that Pincer’d had, the not knowing how it had gone so wrong or what happened during the blank spot in his memories since the night before – it was all telling of a demon’s influence.

Now though, knowing what he did – and how on earth could he have missed how truly _bad_ it was inside the household, that he hadn’t even known sexual harassment was going on until this situation where Crowley had felt the need to attack and to punish so severely? – he honestly couldn’t muster up the horror in behalf of the young man anymore. He thought it probably made him a bad angel, but he found himself privately agreeing that Pincer had deserved exactly what he got. He felt a wave of anger and protectiveness sweep through him, self-righteousness in behalf of Crowley, that his friend had been suffering so much for so many months without so much as a word of complaint.

But he _had_ said something, hadn’t he? Aziraphale remembered suddenly. The first week after Aziraphale had arrived, Crowley had commented quietly how he didn’t like the way they all looked at him, and Aziraphale had foolishly brushed it off as a mere offhand comment. He realized suddenly that he had unintentionally shut Crowley out, not given himself as a listening and sympathetic ear, and that was almost undoubtedly why Crowley continued to wear his sunglasses around him, even now with only him to see.

Crowley watched as Aziraphale’s mind worked for a couple of seconds, practically able to track his thoughts with how well he knew him. There was first horror, then sadness, then anger, then self-doubt, then determination, then thoughtfulness, then horror again – and then blank.

Crowley didn’t know what those last two expressions meant, but he waited silently for Aziraphale to come to whatever conclusion he needed. He felt like this was the deciding moment – was Aziraphale going to pay attention to what he’d said? Was he going to understand why he’d done it, or would he still be upset at the harm he’d cursed on Harry Pincer?

Once upon a time, Crowley might have been certain. But now, after months of feeling secluded from all friendly faces and having to look over her shoulder at every turn, she wasn’t sure what to expect. Aziraphale was her friend. But he was also another man – or may as well be. And several months in the Dowling household had told her that men couldn’t be trusted – couldn’t understand just how hunted she felt.

“Crowley, you really oughtn’t have done that,” Aziraphale said, a familiar look of disapproval on his face, and Crowley pursed his lips, feeling his chest clench in something like betrayal.

“He could have just disappeared,” Aziraphale went on with a frown. “What if suspicion falls on you? Did you at least alter his memories?”

Understanding and then relief swept through Crowley at these words. Aziraphale was not condemning the punishment – he was condemning the publicity of it. And even that, it seemed, was just for show. His usual token protest when Crowley did something demonic.

“Yes, of course I altered his memories, angel,” Crowley said with a sigh and a roll of his eyes, not allowing his relief to show, not allowing Aziraphale to see how he had been testing him just then, and how Aziraphale had passed. (Though the angel certainly knew it, anyway. The use of the nickname ‘angel’ was more telling than anything else, and Aziraphale had not realized until right then that it had been a while since he had heard it.)

“I left him with fear of me, though,” Crowley further explained, leaning into the chair he sat in more comfortably. “And left a few memories in others of how I had threatened his hands before, so that even though nothing can be _proven_ , it will hopefully deter the rest of the pigs.”

“I could have smote him,” Aziraphale said with a mournful sigh. “It’s been a few centuries since I’ve done any smoting.”

“I’ll be my own knight in shining armor, thanks,” Crowley said sarcastically.

“Your armor wasn’t even shiny – it was _black_ ,” Aziraphale countered.

“Details.”

This was familiar, the banter and the light bickering, and Crowley couldn’t be more relieved that Aziraphale understood. And not only understood, but accepted it – accepted _her_ – and moved on.

They continued their good-natured arguing, and Crowley felt the muscles in her shoulders that had been tense for months now finally begin to relax. He could always count on Aziraphale to be there.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's the end! I may continue more with Nanny Crowley, but this is it for this fic. Thank you for reading!

**Author's Note:**

> Find me on [ Tumblr](https://www.tumblr.com/blog/hashtagleh), where I scream about many random and varied things. :)


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